


At His Right Hand

by psiten



Category: La Chanson de Roland | The Song of Roland
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Volleyball, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Heavily Implied Haikyuu Crossover, Hospitalization, M/M, Olivier (Chanson de Roland) PoV, Pre-Slash, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-28 02:12:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17173895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psiten/pseuds/psiten
Summary: In which modern medicine and using sportsball instead of swords makes possible a happy ending that the original canon couldn't really allow.





	At His Right Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sumaru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sumaru/gifts).



     Volleyball games weren't supposed to be that scary, not even the Olympics. If Olivier knew anything, he knew that. They was tension, there was excitement, sometimes worry. You fought, you struggled, you won or you lost, and it got intense as hell, but no one was supposed to nearly die. And yet, here he was, sitting by Roland's hospital bed, listening to the slow and steady beep of the heart monitor, regretting that the last thing he had said to Roland was, "If you even think of losing, I won't let you date my sister!"

     He blamed it on the last few months of increasingly thinking to himself, "Please don't be interested in dating my sister," when Roland came around his house, because goodness knew Aude swooned about how _gorgeous and brave and strong_ Roland was every chance she got. Olivier couldn't blame her for that. He, of all people, couldn't blame anyone for looking at his best friend and falling in love. It'd be like cursing a flower for leaning toward the sunlight, or cursing a dancer for tapping his foot to a beat.

     But he could blame himself, and he would, for not keeping that off the court. Roland deserved his unswerving support. His faith. It was what every setter owed to their ace, but more than that, anything less than that between the two of them was a lie. The last thing he'd said to Roland before he'd blacked out (a spike to the chest, his head to the floor, barely knowing which had been first) had been a lie.

     Then there had been the sound of Roland screaming, and then the darkness. Then he'd been the first one to wake up in the hospital, with the doctors saying they couldn't be sure if Roland would wake up at all. No one had to tell him the Spanish team had won the Olympic semi-finals, and France was another fallen enemy. A small part of Olivier hoped that Spain choked on Japan's team in the finals, with their two famous setters who played like demons and the freakishly tiny middle blocker who Olivier wouldn't have believed was real if he hadn't seen the tapes. But his heart wasn't in the games right now.

     His heart was beating along with Roland's. Who the hell could scream so hard, he gave himself an aneurism? Roland, that was who. Fucking Roland, who he could never be mad at for long, Olivier thought, threading his fingers through his friend's, knitting their hands together, feeling the warmth of his skin and willing the man to live whose wildest smiles were a treasure Olivier kept a thousand score maps to find in his heart.

     "If only I hadn't taken that spike to the chest..." Olivier murmured, not even sure how to finish that sentence. Did he want them to have won? Or did he think it would have stopped Roland from simply being here, surrounded by these sterile machines working at regular speeds.

     The hand in his grip stirred, just a tremor at first, then a light squeeze. Olivier could hardly breathe as he watched Roland's eyes flutter open, his friend startling at the breathing apparatus stuck in his face.

     "Don't try to talk," he said, reaching both hands to hold Roland's face still. "They had to intubate you. Hold on, I'll call the nurses..."

     But while Olivier pulled up the call button, Roland batted at it. He was still weak, but the message was clear. No doctor. Olivier put it down, close enough that Roland could push it when he wanted to. A nurse would check on him soon, anyway. They kept a close eye on him.

     His friend moved his hand, like he was writing with a pen.

     "You want paper?"

     Roland blinked slowly.

     "I'll bring it over." There was a pad of paper and a pen on the stand nearby.

     Olivier brought it, holding the paper steady and fitting the pen into Roland's hand. His strokes were still weak, for Roland, but strong enough to make letters that Olivier could read.

     He looked at the pad as his friend struggled to write while he was barely conscious and could barely lift his head to see what he was doing, and said them out loud as one by one the words went down. "Not... your... sister," he read from Roland's pen.

     His eyes darted up to Roland's, which were filled with conviction like steel. It was a look that had made lesser men quail. It was a look that Olivier loved with all his heart. "Not my sister? Roland..."

     Another slow blink, something Olivier had to assume now meant, "Yes."

     Wiping at his eyes, Olivier tried to pretend that he wasn't tearing up, but the drops kept running down his face. He blamed the fear, the sudden relief. Thank God, the nurse didn't comment as she walked into the room and realized that Roland was awake. Then again, it could hardly have been the first time she'd seen a grown man crying at another man's bedside while she checked vitals, listened to machines, wrote notes that couldn't ever contain everything it meant for Roland to be alive right now.

     He thought he heard the nurse say everything was stable, something about a good outlook, something about how she was getting the doctor. Olivier nodded, and kept his eyes on Roland. He knew everything he needed to know, looking in his beloved friend's eyes.

     As soon as the nurse was out of the room again, he kissed the back of Roland's hand, lingering with his cheek against warm skin. Only after he'd taken his first calm breath since he'd woken up himself did he give Roland back his pen.

     "So, Spain is going to face Japan for the gold," said Olivier, sniffing away the tears. "I'm afraid we lost."

     Words slowly written on the pad of paper said, "I didn't lose," and Olivier had to laugh.

     "No, Roland. Of course you didn't lose. You never lose."

     The next word he wrote on the pad was, "Toothpaste."

     "Toothpaste? Roland, what's that supposed to mean?" Maybe the doctor did need to hurry, and make sure nothing was amiss in Roland's head. Olivier checked for a fever with his hand, even though the machines by the bedside said everything was normal.

     He looked down at the pad again, where Roland was laboriously writing, "Kiss you but tube yuck. Toothpaste." He'd underlined the word toothpaste this time.

     "God, Roland." With a sigh, he leaned down and loaded Roland's forehead with slow kisses, trying not to get tears on his friend's face. "Yes. When they take the tube out, I will have toothpaste for you, and a toothbrush. So help me, I will give you the freshest, most minty kisses a man can give. Just know that you, sir, are impossible."

     Around the ventilator tube, Olivier could recognize Roland's smug smile. The next words on the paper said, "You love me."

     "As if I'd put up with you if I didn't, Roland."

     "Tired," his friend wrote next, then put down the pen and squeezed Olivier's hand. Even as he closed his eyes, Roland didn't let go.

     Olivier brushed through Roland's hair with his free hand, setting it in order against the pillow. "Sleep. Get better. I'll be here until they drag me back to my own bed, my friend." He leaned next to Roland's ear and whispered, "... my love."

     The squeeze of Roland's right hand around his was all the answer he needed.


End file.
